


Team

by scheherazade



Category: Tenimyu RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-09-12 03:11:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9052861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: “Aibacchi.” Ryuuki cuts him off mid-ramble. “This is Shirota we’re talking about, okay? He literally doesn’t know how to interact with people any other way. Sorry to burst your decade-long bubble or whatever, but this is probably like, his way of maintaining an old friendship.”
[Set during the Gem Club run earlier this year]





	

Ohkubo Shoutarou is a piece of work. It’s not that he’s hard to get along with — just the opposite. Which is maybe a weird thing to dislike about someone, especially given how many openly-hostile people there are in this business, but then again, Aiba’s never been one to like people for their virtues.

If he did, he’d be much better friends with, say, Yata Yusuke, instead of Nakagauchi Masataka. Who, unsurprisingly, takes to Shoutarou with borderline unholy glee.

Sometimes Aiba wonders if the rumors about Masa and that choreographer are actually true, because — not to be a creep or anything, but all evidence points squarely to Masa only ever going for younger guys.

Ryuuki does an actual spit-take at that, and oops, he’d said that last part out loud, hadn’t he? Aiba hands him a napkin.

“Okay, so,” Ryuuki says, once he’s got his spluttering under control, “I admit that Shoutarou’s only ever dated up—”

“I don’t know if Masa’s any kind of—”

“—in terms of age, at least.” Ryuuki waves his napkin dismissively. “But like, no. Literally no way. Masa’s so not Shoutarou’s type.”

“You sure about that? I mean, if the shoe fits…”

“It’s not a question of shoe size so much as style and brand and if anyone’s even wearing footwear or not, and if the establishment has a shirt-and-shoes policy.”

Ryuuki gives him a Meaningful Look, picks up his chopsticks and resumes eating like what he just said made perfect sense and Aiba’s the one at fault for being too dense to understand his deep worldly wisdom. Aiba stares him down; Ryuuki meets his eyes and keeps eating, serene as anything.

Aiba scowls. “When did you turn into Taito?”

Ryuuki cocks his head. “When did you notice?”

It’s Aiba’s turn to splutter now, and Ryuuki starts laughing.

“God, I’d actually forgotten how batshit all of you are.”

“The D in D-Boys also stands for deranged,” Ryuuki replies happily. “True story.”

“I’d believe it.”

“Demonic also works. Shoutarou’s a complete bastard — which, again, another reason why Masa’s so not his type.”

“Aren’t you two best friends? Also, I think that makes them exactly each other’s type. Horrifying as it is.”

“You’re not listening,” Ryuuki says patiently, like Aiba’s the dumb kouhai here. “Masa is like, so chronically single it hurts.”

“…You’ve completely lost me now. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. But you’ve seen Shoutarou work — he likes a challenge.”

“You calling your senpai easy?”

Ryuuki grins. “If the shoe fits. But hey, don’t take my word for it. Ask him yourself.”

“Oh, sure. I’ll just walk up to him and open with, ‘hey, so I heard you think Masa’s a complete slut, can you confirm or deny?’ — because that won’t ruin everyone’s focus right before a show or anything.”

“Over sixteen hours before curtains rise tomorrow,” Ryuuki says, making a show of checking his watch, before looking up — and past Aiba’s shoulder. “Hope you don’t mind, I invited them to drinks, figured we’d be done eating about now. And oh look, right on time. Hey, Shoutarou!”

Aiba turns his head as Ryuuki waves at someone — or rather, someones, because yup, there’s Shoutarou, flanked by one of the D-Boys who’d come to see tonight’s show — Shison, he remembers — and behind the pair of them…

“Aibacchi!”

Shirota. That obnoxiously familiar voice carries clear across the restaurant, and Aiba feels his smile freeze into place.

“Sleep with one eye open, Takahashi,” he hisses at Ryuuki, without turning his head or letting his smile slip. “I know where you live.”

“I didn’t actually plan this part,” Ryuuki hisses right back, standing up to greet his friends. “When Shoutarou said they’re meeting a senpai, I thought he meant Taito.”

“What is it with you and Taito?”

“What is it with you and douchebags?”

“There is nothing— Hi!” Aiba cuts himself off to stand as the newcomers reach their table. “Hey. It’s been a while.”

“Too long of a while, even.”

“Hope you don’t mind,” Shoutarou says blithely. “Ryuuki sucks at texting, so I couldn’t actually tell if we were all invited or not.”

Not that it seems to have stopped him, Aiba refrains from noting. “Of course. Glad you could all make it.”

“I see we’re a bit early,” Shison says, with such mannered politeness that Aiba nearly gets whiplash when he looks from him to Ryuuki to Shoutarou and back. “I suppose we did have time to take the bus, instead of a cab…”

“Lifestyles of the rich and famous,” Ryuuki quips, which makes Shoutarou turn his head to hide a grin, while Shison looks down and Shirota gives them all a raised eyebrow. It feels so practiced, in the way of people who know each other way too well, Aiba wants to bang his head against the table. “We’ll just close up here and move to the bar. You guys go ahead.”

While the other three go find seats at the bar, Aiba digs through his bag for his wallet. Ryuuki calmly finishes his soup and waves the waitress over.

“Thanks for the heads up,” Aiba says finally, when the check is on the table.

“I didn’t realize it was still 2006.” Ryuuki puts down enough money to cover his portion of the bill. He glances up, handful of coins jingling as he returns them to his pocket. “Sorry, okay? I’ll buy you a drink.”

“You can buy me a soda.”

“Oh come on, don’t be like that—”

“This is exactly what I’m going to be like, because it really isn’t 2006 anymore.” Aiba throws a couple bills onto the table and stands. “That D should actually stand for disaster.”

Ryuuki glances over at the bar as he follows. “Do I even want to know what happened with you two?”

“Nothing happened. That’s the whole point.”

“So are you, like, still harboring a tragic crush or—”

“It’s _awkward_ , okay? I’m embarrassed just thinking about it.  And I swear to whatever god you don’t believe in, but if you make this any more awkward than it needs to be—”

“But you said nothing happened.”

“Exactly!”

Ryuuki blinks, then frowns. He tugs Aiba into a corner out of line of sight of the bar. “Okay, no. Explain to me like I’m a four-year-old. What exactly are you embarrassed about?”

Aiba refrains from connecting face with palm. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Because I don’t get it?”

“You’ve seen the second cast DVDs! No, don’t even pretend — I know you’re a huge nerd and you marathoned every single musical that’d come out before the first Hyoutei performance.”

“Yeah, for character research.”

“Nothing about the backstage clips are relevant to character research.” Aiba can’t help feeling a little bit smug — and smug is good, smug is miles better than awkward — as Ryuuki’s mouth snaps shut. “Yeah, that’s right. I’m friends with Taito, too.”

“Taito has plenty of friends besides me. I know that.” Ryuuki sounds disgruntled. “Anyway, you should be flattered. We learned from your example.”

“I’d rather you learned from my actual advice than from watching—” Aiba can’t even say it. “From watching the crap we did. On and off stage.”

Ryuuki stares at him.

Aiba glares back.

Ryuuki says, “Are you embarrassed about the _fanservice_?”

It’s loud enough that Aiba is moving to clamp a hand over his mouth before the last word’s been spoken. Ryuuki bats him away. He drops his voice to a furious whisper instead. “It was Tenimyu, for fuck’s sake! Literally everybody acted gay for everybody else! Have you even _met_ your coworker—”

“Do _not_ say Masa, because he was actually flirting—”

“—wait, _what_?”

Aiba wants to bury his face in his hands. Or possibly himself. Under a rock. “He flirts with me, all right? He still — that’s what’s embarrassing!”

“What are you, secretly straight?”

“No!” He probably shouldn’t have said that quite so loud. Ryuuki raises both eyebrows. Aiba scowls. “Not exclusively. Probably. Look — that was then, and it is what it is, but I never asked for pity to begin with! And I especially did _not_ ask anyone to go and tell him — I don’t even know what they told him. And I still don’t know who it was, but if I ever find out—”

“Aibacchi.” Ryuuki cuts him off mid-ramble. “This is Shirota we’re talking about, okay? He literally doesn’t know how to interact with people any other way. Sorry to burst your decade-long bubble or whatever, but this is probably like, his way of maintaining an old friendship.”

And that — kind of hurts, actually. Aiba quashes the feeling. “You don’t know for sure.”

Ryuuki shrugs; something buzzes in his pocket. “I’m just saying.” Ryuuki glances at his phone and grimaces. “Okay, we need to get to the bar before Shoutarou starts spreading rumors.”

“About what?”

“Us getting x-rated,” Ryuuki says like he gets that everyday, which. Whatever expression is on Aiba’s face makes Ryuuki roll his eyes. “No need to be worried about my dishonorable intentions toward you. I know which team you play for.”

“Glad someone does,” Aiba mutters, following back to the bar.

Ryuuki makes a humming noise under his breath. “Too bad most people don’t realize you’re just waiting for whichever team picks you first.”

Aiba somehow manages to get his face back under control, just in time for Shirota to look over his shoulder and spot them coming. The grin he’s wearing wouldn’t be out of place in a melodrama. Actually, it’s more like a leer. Especially as he leans one elbow on the counter.

“Hey, stranger,” Shirota says. “Glad you could make it.”

Aiba steps on Ryuuki’s toes in a last-ditch swerve — there’s an empty chair next to Shoutarou, in the corner. No dice, as Ryuuki practically bodychecks him and shit, all the weight training he’s been doing really shows. Aiba wobbles for a split second, regains his balance — and takes the seat that Shirota saved for him. He can feel his ears burning.

“Hey,” he manages, and, “Yeah. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

Shirota’s still grinning at him. Aiba glances over to Shoutarou, who’s making a show of putting away his phone. Beside him, Ryuuki snags the drink list out of Shison’s hands. Good idea. Aiba looks around for a menu of his own—

—and finds Shirota holding it. “Here,” he says, putting it down between them.

“Oh. Thanks.”

More like _no thanks_ , as Shirota takes the opportunity to lean way too close to peer at the drinks list, though surely, he’s already read it a couple times? While they were waiting? And goddammit, Shirota is practically leaning on him, which is uncomfortable to say the least, their shoulders pressed together and Aiba can smell the musk of cigarette smoke mixed with his shampoo.

“—offensive wine list, huh?”

Aiba blinks when Shirota leans back and he suddenly has breathing space again. Or not, as he looks up to find Shirota studying him instead of the menu. “Sorry. What was that?”

Shirota laughs that laugh that might be called a giggle if his voice were just a bit girlier. “I said, is there something offensive about the wine list? You’re glaring at the thing like it insulted your favorite relative.”

“Pretty offensive whiskey list if you ask me,” Shoutarou chimes in, and Aiba jumps — god, he’d almost forgotten about the others. “Half of these aren’t worth the bottles they come in.”

“The bartender’s right there,” Shison mutters.

“You’ve never even tried most of these,” Ryuuki points out. “You usually drink beer because you’re cheap.”

“Uh, not true. Last week, I went out with Masa—”

“Oh, come on,” Ryuuki sneers. Aiba could swear Ryuuki is looking at him from the corner of his eye. “Masa’s not like Jinchan — which, I can’t believe he actually spent that much money on you. I’m still waiting for a corroborating source.”

“You’re just jealous because my senpai likes me better,” Shoutarou says, and Aiba feels his eyebrows lift right off his forehead as Ryuuki’s face twists into actual _bitterness_. Mental note to catch up on D-Boys gossip: check. “Ask anyone you want. They’ll tell you.”

“Literally no one can tell me anything because it didn’t happen.” Ryuuki nudges Shison. “Back me up here.”

Shison looks like he’d rather back out of the entire conversation. “I had a drama commitment.”

“And you _crushed_ it,” Shirota crows, making Aiba jump again — while Shison actually smiles.

“Teacher’s pet,” Ryuuki and Shoutarou chorus as one.

“Who’s jealous now?” Shison asks the two of them, and Aiba turns to hide a grin at the identical scowls that cross their faces.

“Hard to believe, but they’re not even the worst of the lot.” Shirota’s voice is pitched to a whisper. “Can’t decide if they keep me young or make me feel like a creaking grandpa, some days.”

“Don’t think your love babies are old enough to be having their own babies yet,” Aiba whispers back.

Shirota covers his mouth to muffle a snicker. It’s a weirdly nice sound, even if it does make his eyes crinkle up in a less-than-attractive way. Then again, Aiba’s never liked someone just for their virtues.

Ryuuki’s wrong — or at least, partially wrong: Aiba is not and never has been the last kid to get picked during P.E.; he’s never been the sportiest, sure, but he knows how to catch someone’s attention, and he knows how to wield it. Maybe not always for good. Great power doesn’t always come with great responsibility; sometimes it just comes with a batshit fanbase and boatload of criticism and remedial vocal lessons and endless dance practice that’s lead to joint pain at the tender age of twenty-eight.

So it’s nice, sometimes, to have someone pay attention to him — even when he’s not doing anything. Not dancing or joking or channeling a character that’s less Fuji than Kimeru. It’s been ten years, and he can admit this now.

Which means he can also admit that this — Shirota’s warm weight against his shoulder, knee bumping against his — is probably less a statement of intent than of familiarity. Even if that familiarity was always a rehearsed thing to begin with.

( _It’s character research,_ Shirota had said once, laughing, when Aiba demanded to know why the other man had been staring at him all day. He remembers Shirota’s grin suddenly morphing into a smoldering stare. _Where’s the real you, Aibacchi?_

Aiba gaped at him for a good three seconds — before Shirota laughed: _And, scene!_ )

Maybe _nice_ is the wrong word for it. Nice doesn’t really describe the buzz of nervous affection that raises a flush on his skin, more effective than any alcoholic drink. Nice doesn’t quite cut it, when you factor in the exasperation and frustration and outright mortification.

Still. It’s not unpleasant, the way Shirota still feels comfortable enough to whisper right into his ear, commentating on Ryuuki and Shoutarou’s verbal sparring with Shison, while Aiba tries not to laugh at the increasingly tangential anecdotes that he recalls.

Shirota breaks off, mid-sentence, when the bartender finally approaches. “What can I get you folks?”

Aiba makes a mental note to ask Shirota for the rest of that story later. He closes the drink menu, with its hideously expensive wines and whiskeys. “Whatever pale ale you have on tap. Thanks.”

Shirota’s grin is reflected in the liquor bottles lined up behind the bar.

“Make that two,” he says.


End file.
